The Opposite of Death
by LithiumDoll
Summary: The Wolf Shaped Bullet coda, spoilers for 3x08


Wyndam leaves and the fire and the fight leave with him; so here they are, left with the ashes. Except it's not ashes, the ever present, ever finicky little voice in George's brain points out. It's dust. Dust so fine that it's already stirring in the draft from the open door. He reaches down towards the pile; pulls his hand back. Clears his throat and reaches again, but he can't make himself disturb it.

God, what are they meant to do now? Hoover? A noise escapes him; it's not quite a howl, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. He claps his palm over his mouth tightly; whatever it is, he never wants to hear it again.

He's not aware his fingers have begun to cramp with the effort until Annie's hand gently pries his away, pulls it into her own. Her touch is cool, almost numbing. Numbing's good, he thinks. Everyone could use a bit of numbing.

She smiles a careful smile, but it doesn't hide the tremble and that's bad, because if she goes off, he's going with her and they have to hold it together because - because - because otherwise it's _losing_.

He's not sure what it's losing, but he holds onto that, because as of now - _right now_ - they're never losing anything or anyone _ever again_.

He presses his lips tight and swallows hard against the sudden burn in his chest. It's trying to claw its way up into his throat; his eyes sting with it.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Time passes and he's not sure how much, except now Nina is kneeling beside the space where Mitchell used to be, drawing the dust-covered clothes to her and folding them neatly, precisely, like hospital corners.

She smooths a wrinkle from the shirt and then just stares down at it, as if she doesn't know what to do next. She draws a deep breath, and then another, before she looks up, expression shuttered. "Why don't you go and make us a cup of tea, George?"

It's the tone she uses at work, pitched low and compelling and calm; the one that makes her an anchor to sanity for every grief-stricken soul she meets. She shouldn't have to do that, not here.

He shakes his head. "No. No this is my job. Come up off the floor, it can't be good for the baby."

She rolls her eyes, but it's half-hearted. "The baby's fine. If it can cope with me turning into a werewolf once a month, I think it can cope with - with - everything else." She closes her eyes then, and George hates the swell of anger, the words that spring up inside him.

"_You never liked him anyway_," he wants to scream. "_You hated him. You wanted him dead. I bet this makes you happy._" He wants to claw and bite and when she looks at him again, she flinches. She knows; she sees every horrible word ringing hotly inside his head.

And that's when he understands - really, really understands - how much she loves him, because without moving she meets him fury for fury; etches every nasty thought she's having into the tear-streaked lines of her face and throws them back.

Somehow she makes it okay.

Annie's hand slips away and she moves, or at least disappears. She reappears next to the pile of clothes and the pair of boots, gathers them haphazardly into her arms and then vanishes again. A second later the dust is gone as well. In the midst of a sensation not unlike ripping a plaster off his entire body, George wonders vaguely how she got so good at that, but the thought is overrun by the breathless punch of _gone_.

Just _gone_.

There's nothing of Mitchell in this room, not really - not like there was in the pink house.

_Gone._

He reaches down to help Nina to her feet and when she's standing, he just holds on. Her face presses against his shoulder; her hair smells of flowers.

"I didn't want this." She looks up, her eyes searching for his. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know." The words are thick and rough. He meets her eyes; clears his throat and nods tightly. "I do know that. I am so sorry."

With a careful hand he brushes the tears on her cheeks away, leaving her skin red and sticky with salt. Her eyes are swollen and her hair is wild; she's the most beautiful woman in the world.

"Love should be the opposite of death," he pleads, from far away and long ago.

"You didn't kill him, George. Mitchell - Mitchell died a long time ago. Maybe even before the train. You saved him, because you loved him."

She searches his face; he nods jerkily because that seems to be what she wants. "Then why doesn't it feel like it?"

The tears come, clawing their way out like the wolf, ripping him apart from the inside, stealing his breath and stopping his heart. Losing again.

Arms are around him, cold and warm; the floor is solid, but the world tilts.

-o-

Then steadies.

-o-

He's curled on his side, his head on Nina's lap; Annie hums tunelessly somewhere beside him. He lays there for a while, thinking nothing at all, and then reaches blindly back to find Annie's hand. He coughs again, to make sure that it's clear when he says, "I'm sorry."

Her fingers tighten on his. "I'm not." She sounds fierce and defiant and so brave.

"And there's not going to be any _what ifs_ or _could we haves_," she goes on firmly, as if she's been reading one of her pamphlets again. She probably has. "We did everything we could and so did he, and what happened here tonight wasn't anyone's fault."

She rushes on before he or Nina can answer and now George is sure she's been rehearsing this; that she saw this coming when he should have, but never did.

"And he was over a hundred and healthy to the end, and he went when he wanted, with everyone around him and knowing he was loved. Not everyone gets that. I didn't."

Her tone shifts away from the stilted textbook repetition as she runs out of prepared lines and finds a tangent to run with. "Not even my great-aunt Daliah did, and _she_ was planning her death for twenty years!"

Nina stiffens slightly with curiosity. "I'm sorry? Your great-aunt Daliah was planning her own death for _twenty years_?"

"She had her palm read for her sixtieth, and the psychic said she'd die in her eighties, on a Sunday, surrounded by all her loved ones. When I was little, we all had to go around every week in our best clothes, just in case. For ten years! And I can tell you, when mum fell out with Uncle Phillip, that got really awkward."

Despite himself, George squirms around until he's looking up at both women, legs stretched out. "Really?"

"Really!" Annie nods rapidly. "But it was all right though, because she had the really posh biscuits, and Uncle Phillip moved to Ibiza."

George feels the tug of a smile and lets it come; it feels strange and it aches, but he leaves it where it is. "So what happened?"

"A gargoyle fell on her when she was ninety-two." Annie's hand waves carelessly. "It _was_ a Sunday, though - so it just goes to show."

"Just goes to show what?" Nina sounds like she isn't sure she wants to know the answer, but can't quite help asking just the same.

Annie blushes; or she would - if she could. "You know. Things you show. Spooky things."

And there it is, striking so quickly and so sharply you feel the sting too late: the silence where words should have been. Something funny and sly and maybe a little bit mean - but with that easy charm that made you forgive, forget. Made you see the joke.

That was the trouble, wasn't it? Some things weren't yours to forgive or to forget. Weren't even yours to laugh at.

In the silence, George hauls himself stiffly to his feet. He's wrung out and tired and the world is soft and hard in all the wrong places, but it's all still there, waiting for them.

Still life, going on.

He looks down at them. "I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"

"Milk for me." Nina grimaces. "And one of those tablets on the side."

When he reaches the kitchen, he glances back and sees they've closed the gap he left. They're sat on the floor with their backs to the sofa, shoulder to shoulder. That seems right.

When there's a knock at the door, they all start.

He catches Nina's eye. She nods grudgingly and makes her way back to the relative safety of the kitchen while Annie follows him to the door; he opens it warily.

When he's not immediately killed, he blinks and takes a moment to recognize the man standing on the path outside. "Tom? Tom! What are you doing here?"

"All right?" Tom looks uncertain and his hands twist in the folds of his hoodie, probably able to smell the emotion in the air, if not understand it. "Just came to see how Nina - everything okay, is it?" He frowns now, worried, and George can see the wolf waking almost protectively.

And he can't speak, can't say it - can't make it real. At his side Annie looks stricken and behind him he can feel Nina's presence, but she's not going to answer for him.

Tom waits patiently for George to find his voice.

"Mitchell's gone," he says at last. "It was what he wanted," he adds quickly, because that's what's important.

Tom might be young, a little naïve, but George can see he's heard the depths and echoes under the word 'gone'.

"Well. He were all right. You know, for a vampire," Tom manages and then stops awkwardly, nothing else to say.

What else is there to say?

Everything.

Nothing.

George steps back out of the doorway and smiles. "Kettle's on, you want a cup of tea?"


End file.
